LIVE, one night only!
by bhanesidhe
Summary: Ten years, nothing's changed but everything is different. First Person POV [Angela Chase]


**DISCLAIMER**: "My So-Called Life" is © 1994, created by Winnie Holzman for Bedford Falls, a subsidiary of ABC, Inc. No infringements intended.

**AUTHOR NOTES**: I am so distracted, unfocused and random lately... A musician friend of mine was obsessing over 30secondstomars. com; Jared Leto's band...oddly enough while I was watching Claire Danes in "Igby Goes Down". It just struck me how much can change in just ten years. So I revisited MSCL. com and it broke my brain. I feel I will be hosting marathon viewings soonish.

* * *

**_LIVE, one night only!_**

The burgundy fainting couch with the carpet-like feel and the massive plush pillow seduces me. I have a perfectly fine bed upstairs, but every time I come home, every single time I slide in through the door I make a bee-line for the study. My Mom was overjoyed I was 'furnishing the study' so it could somehow be less hers and more mine. Like it could chain me to the house and force me to stay longer or maybe even come back. Having luxuriously lounged away half the day, I can't say that she's a hundred percent wrong. She was far too happy to offer me her study permanently the moment I got signed at The Voice. Never mind that I lived 400 miles away. Yawning contentedly, I remind myself that the worn vintage monstrosity goes with absolutely nothing in my closest-sized studio.

I'm back here yet again, because my boss says my notes are, what's the word she used, 'loquacious'. It's a word that sounds like it should be a taste, like delicious, but actually means I ramble. She likes my original stuff, but I like ghosting. I like not having the responsibility to stand behind every single word I put into print. So, that's why I came home, to hide, sort my thoughts, throw out the useless ones, figure out which are the vital ones to latch onto and make sense of my universe. I can't believe I actually get paid to do this. I actually contemplate ordering in and curling up here for the rest of the night. My laptop is conveniently tucked between the bookcase and the desk. (The perfect place. Close enough for me to reach if I need to but just out of sight enough that I don't feel like work is hunting me down, demanding I be responsible and civil and other important words that do not describe the wonder that is my fainting couch. Oh god. If I don't get up now I never will.)

I pad barefoot along the corridor and there's a weird empty quality to the sound my steps make. I turn on the TV in the living room just to fill the space and collect my discarded things from the kitchen counter. My notepad, the mini-composition one with the dying spine, filled to the brim with notes, numbers, and post-it's. Twice loved. Before I can even think about leafing through it (you know, to see what I should but still haven't moved to the hard-drive because I can't quite decipher my 'funny' notes that were meant to amuse at the time but now seem sort of random and completely crap) the blinking of my cell phone warns me real-life has found me out. I recognize the number before I ring up the voice mail. I consider ignoring it even as I punch in my code.

_-"Hey-Hey Angelica, babe. Still screening?"-_

"Well, ninety-percent of the time yes, but I was honestly asleep," I reply while sifting through my purse for a pen.

_-"My man Rickie says you've run off to the boondocks for the weekend. Geez, why would anyone want to do that to themselves—never mind. Well, whatever don't give us call or anything. It's not like we worry or like we had some fantastic weekend plans to crash your place and kidnap you and force you to have fun. Maybe even get you laid or something."-_

I snort despite myself. I don't know how she does it, with just her tone. I could hate her sometimes, really hate her but then she just pokes at me with her tone of voice and I'm warm all inside and laughing like everything is funny. Like always.

When she goes on her voice is hurried, like she thinks she might run out of tape. I don't think you can do that with voicemails but I wouldn't put it past her to give it a good run.

_-"So, seeing as you probably don't know and you're there already I felt I should warn you. I mean, I couldn't have you hating me if you heard it from like a neighbor or something. Or Sharon or whoever."-_

I'm tapping the pen in that way that annoys my cat. If she doesn't get to the point soon... I'll do absolutely nothing but wait for her to say her piece like I always do, probably even listen to it a second time because I can't help myself. I think I may just be a masochist, but I'm too terrified to ask Krackow to explain the correct terminology to me again. I mean, it's Brian for god sakes.

_-"So, Jordan, like THE Jordan is going to marry himself a Missus Catalano sometime soon. This weekend most likely, that is if he hasn't already. Guess not all fairytales come true, right? I don't know her or anything. I just sorta heard from a friend of a friend. I figure you might get a laugh out of it. Crazy huh? Good thing you never went down with that ship, am I right? Gotta go babe, call back. Love you."-_

There a noise like maybe muffled talk or laughter or a shuffle of clothes or just movement and I feel like I'm not in on the joke. I feel like my stomach is sort of made of lead. And I'm not really tapping the pen anymore, just sort of staring at until it's just an unfocused blob hovering over the tabletop.

"_Bye!" _she says louder than anything else on the message and I erase it before the sound of the phone slamming into the cradle is done.

* * *

In my small silver sedan that I bought used, I'm driving in circles. It's the first thing I've ever owned. Entirely owned. Inside it smells like roses, but not the good kind. On my last birthday, someone in layouts gave me roses and I sort of forgot them under the passenger seat for months. It's not a horrible smell, just not a car smell. It belongs to me though because it belongs to the car and it's about the only thing in the universe that makes sense to me right now.

It's sort of pointless have a car in New York, so the only time I really get to drive it is back and forth from Three River's. I know the neighbors must think I'm crazy shifting through streets like I really need to go, just really need to go, except I'm not heading anywhere. Talk about your perfect little metaphors.

It's just... I love driving here, like I could never like driving anywhere else. The control and power and...the memories. There, I said it. The memories. At a red-light I look in the rearview mirror and I get lost. Like I'm stuck inside the body of this newest version of me that I don't quite get.

I fuss with the pale strands of blonde that are shoved under the collar of my navy peacoat. They're too long and itchy and bright and pretty. Just too pretty, like they're not even a part of me but some accessory I pick up along the way I can't exactly bear to part with. It's not that I don't dye my hair anymore; in fact it's sort of all sorts of tones of blonde from having highlighted it too much, and dry and long and it doesn't look natural which suits me just fine. I've had absolutely no sun this past year and without a stitch of make-up I look like a ghost. It doesn't feel too far from the truth but I wonder sometimes, how underneath all of this mass of hair and big eyes, I still haven't figured out how to perfect being me. I used to stare in the mirror a lot when I was younger and just stare myself down like if the other me would just surface already. Ten years, nothing's changed but everything is different.

The car honking behind me informs me that I've missed the green light nearly entirely and I'm too out of it to be introspective right now. I glance around trying to figure what neighborhood I'm in and how far I am from something civilized because I really need to snap out of this and get some coffee already. Jeez.

That lead feeling in my stomach, it never really went away. In fact it turns cold and makes my whole body shudder when I realize exactly where I am. I'm sitting in my car, just sort of hovering outside of Jordan Catalano's old house.

Groaning I press my head into the steering wheel, willing myself to stop being stupid.

Thankfully, I realize I'm running low on gas before I've been in park for too long. I try not to peel out of there too quickly but I'm happy for the excuse to get gone.

There's nothing proving he still lives there, I remind myself, while I pull into the nearest gas station.

Ten long years have gone by, I repeat mentally, and there is no way in hell he still part-times at this station and I shouldn't be obsessing over this because it wasn't like I wanted to marry him anyway. Can't believe I just thought that.

I'm wandering through the aisles toward the coffee machine, thinking so hard it's nearly out loud. Thinking that I really never thought of it. Marriage, it really never occurred to me, like ever the whole time we were... whatever we were.

I didn't want to be 'Missus Catalano' my brain practically growls, when I drop the Styrofoam cup realizing their machine is empty and I don't really have much money on me anyway.

The whole time we were together I didn't want anything from him; I just wanted him, like I wanted air. I wouldn't have known what to do with him if I had had him, honestly, not then, I think when I use my last twenty to pay for the gas. Damn.

On the plus side, there's just enough change for coffee, I mumble out loud, trying and failing to change the subject.

I park the car on the first empty spot on the corner and cross the street to a coffee shop that offers sanctuary. Except it's one of those fancier, over complicated coffee houses, with illegible menus scrawled out in colorful chalk along the walls promising all sorts of decadent caffeine. I've never been much of a coffee drinker. I mean not really. Only when I work or when I'm thinking too much. I left my laptop at the house so this doesn't bode well for me. That and there is only one way I take it; black with lots of sugar...which they don't seem to carry.

"You're seriously saying you don't have just Black Coffee?"

I blink twice, staring at the back of his head, recognizing the lay of his shoulders and back and the easy stance, almost as quick as I recognized his voice, although the clothes, the tone, the hair, the everything, is different.

"I'm sorry sir, we only carry flavored coffees and cappuccinos here," the cashier apologizes and nods to the next patron to step up. Except I don't, I cant.

That lead feeling in my stomach, I know what it is now. It was dread, like that tight insufferable clench when you're mounting a roller-coaster. Because now that it's released I feel like I'm falling over the edge and the world is rushing up at me. I'm terrified but feeling very alive.

" Jordan?"

God, even as I hear myself say it... oh god, why did I say anything? Why do I do this to myself?

At first I don't think he hears me, because he's sighing in disappointment about the whole coffee situation, which I have to sort of admit I'm disappointed about too. Weird how you can register the actual world even while you are being sucked into the bizarro one.

For a second, a very small one mind you, I consider looking away and pretending I hadn't noticed him. This is very stupid because I've already called out his name, but I'm obviously having trouble thinking clearly. He looks at me for a short eternity and makes a face like he's trying to place me. It may be ten years, but I know that expression too well to think he's actually forgotten me. At least one of us has the decency to pause for a breath before dealing.

"Angela," he says sort of low and then half smiles at me. "Hey."

I'm not sure exactly what's going on. I mean we talked about coffee. Why coffee of all things? But we talked about coffee, or rather the significant lack thereof. We strolled down the pavement alongside each other, marveling at the conglomerate that is Starbucks for having ruined good coffee for all eternity. He's funny. I mean I always thought he was but I never realized he actually was in this sort of dry self-deprecating way that looks so good on him. I struggle to keep my eyes on the pavement ahead of us the whole while and laugh at all the right intervals, not too loud to show exactly how uncomfortable and cold I am but not so low as to make him think I'm not interested. I'm mean, in the conversation, not like in HIM in any way.

The advantage to forcing myself to keep my eyes focused on anything but him is the way I notice he's staring at me. Like _–staring-_ at me, sort of like he's trying to place my face but more determined, like he's memorizing changes. And then my idiocy catches up with me.

I stop on a street corner even though we're missing the light and stare at him blankly. I walked pass my damn car four blocks ago.

"What's wrong?"

I pause thoughtfully and try not to laugh. I take advantage of this moment and admire the way his hair, while cut shorter than I remembered manages to fall expertly in his face. It makes him look like a star or a model or something a little bigger than life.

"Uhm, where exactly are we headed?" I ask, smiling. And the puzzled silence that follows breaks it for me. And I'm laughing so loud he has to look away, but I just can't help myself.

* * *

Thank god for small miracles.

My dad's restaurant, _-'Fiore'-_ is all of one stop away on the bus. Not far enough away where I can't walk back to my car. Plus, I can always eat here for free. Life can be kind of amazing that way.

Jules finds us a seat far enough away from the kitchen and the front door so I can almost pretend we're alone and not at all in enemy territory. Coats are off and I can't help but notice how well he's filled out. He can't help noticing I'm noticing and flashes me a look that just leaves me sort of breathless.

"So," I say before I can stop myself, "I should say congratulations or something like that, right?"

He stares at me, face still but questioning and waits for me to fill in the blank.

"I heard you were... getting married," I say, maintaining a steady if not slightly smaller voice. I hid the rest of my nerves behind the lip of a coffee cup.

He shrugs and pulls a half-crushed pack of cigarettes from the back of his jean pocket. "Divorced actually," he murmurs while lighting up.

"What?" I cough, and set the cup down more shakily than I'd have liked. "But you're Twenty-Seven!"

Now, he's laughing at me and I'm looking away.

"God, I-I'm sorry," I stammer to embarrassed to live. Why do I always put my foot in my mouth, just always--

"Mrs. Chase," Jules appears at my side, "Your friend really shouldn't be smoking in here."

"Oh, god, right. Look, Jules. There's no one here but us; I swear it'll be okay." I say in that firm tone I inherited from my mother. Our hostess doesn't look happy about conceding but she smiles and nods anyway. It's barely 3pm and without my Father here to outrank me there isn't anything to be done for it. "Oh, and another thing, please don't call me Mrs. Chase. Just Angela."

"Alright, Ms. Angela," she says and bustles away to see to the last customer paying his bill on the way out.

"Mrs. Chase?" he mocks, smirking slightly.

"God, Mrs. Chase is my mom. It always creeps me out when they do that."

He turns his head to blow smoke away from me, which is not only very considerate but it gives me a good chance to admire his profile.

It's amazing how far we've gone without having really gone anywhere. I look at the way he leans on his arms, he seems to lean less than I remember. And he doesn't have his car. He doesn't seem inclined to talk about it so I don't push. His hair is long around his face, a little darker than I remember, and really short around the collar, I think it looks rather punkish, much more stylish than I would have imagined. He used to have such a careless but striking look about him. He still does but it's not at all the same.

Meanwhile I'm sitting here with my uncombed desperately-needs-to-be-trimmed hair, oversized band T that keeps sliding around my collar and the dark jeans I always wear when I know it's time to do laundry. The one with the faded paint stains in the thighs and hips. It's comfy, granted, but that's pretty much all its got going for it. Amazingly enough, this doesn't actually bring me down. for three simple reasons, 1) because this up close and personal I'm starting to notice little details about his face, like the shadows of coke-craters and the lines of sun and age. It doesn't make him look bad, not at all; it just sort of makes him look real. 2) I feel like being real in front of him too, now, if not for just this reason and 3) I may not be some big breasted bomb-shell but I know I always at my best when I'm being genuine. It's just like a glow or something. Like an armor of self confidence and defense.

There is another big reason why appearances don't matter right now. That is the here and now. It's all sort of overwhelming and I can't help but smile, when he looks back at me. It seems neither can he.

* * *

Three glasses of red wine later, I find myself apologizing for the umpteenth time that we don't carry beer.

"It's this weird sophisticate thing. Like my dad believes that everyone in Pittsburgh should know exactly which chardonnay to have with...with..."

"With coffee?" he offers. It's always so weird how his voice gets lower when he's amused, like he can't exactly let himself just laugh at stuff.

I hiccup and he does laugh. My mind swims a bit when I shake my head trying to ignore his mocking and it becomes really frighteningly clear exactly how much I haven't eaten today.

"We should have done this years ago," I think, out loud. Too damn honestly, because getting drunk and hanging out was certainly something he would have been up for years ago. It was my fault for always putting the breaks on that before he could even suggest it.

I hate thinking about faults. Because I've got so many. He wasn't perfect but I was abysmal. I just ... I just can't think about all that now.

He doesn't say anything to suggest he gets it but I know he does. He wasn't overjoyed about the wine but he sure packed it away when they brought the bottle out. He's calmer, more talkative but a tad more red-faced and I'm not sure whether he's nearly as drunk as I am or if it's just getting that late.

"So, you're in New York now."

"Uh, yeah totally," I strain to bit back another hiccup. "I write."

"You what?"

"I write. Well I mean I do write but mostly I copy-edit. I work for a paper over there and it's not like you get to see my name in big letters or anything but every once and a while I get to cover a review for a show or a band or something and I get comps all the time."

"Really?"

"Yeah, otherwise I couldn't afford to have a social life there."

Man, did I sound dismal when I pointed that out. I was thinking of Rayanne. Of how I almost always bail on her and how nowadays I only ever see her at parties and shows. And how she blatantly lied to me on the voice mail, and how I'm grateful to her for that and how I should probably thank her but I won't. And how I miss her.

"So, you're not divorced or married or anything?" he's making fun of me and my outright shock that he's been both married and divorced since the last time I saw him. Me? I have a cat named Billy, that's about it.

"Heh, nope," I refrain from mentioning the cat by sipping at my glass. "Just boring regular stuff. But not all of us can be Tino."

He doesn't confirm or deny any of the rumors I've heard about Tino. No mention of a penitentiary or a multi-million dollar record deal. He just sighs and shakes his head knowingly, "Jeez, that guy's nuts."

* * *

Weighed in the back pocket of my jeans is my notepad. While in the restroom I take it out and tap my pen against it, wishing I could have just remembered everything, wishing I could just capture something.

But then Jules pops into check her make-up and wash her hands. She's headed out for the night and complaining because she needs to get clear across town to get groceries for the night before the shop closes, and its just such a shame she can't just take food from the restaurant she kids, trying to humor me, like I have any invested interest in this place at all. I do take advantage of the situation though and offer my car; all she has to do is drop it off home for me. I hand her the keys and she's so grateful that her voice raises a number of octaves and I strain to grin.

I find it amazing that I'm not physically ill from the lack of food and the amount of alcohol. In fact, all the wine leaves me feeling sort of full, and I wonder exactly how long I can keep up this act. Like I could ever really keep him.

I play parts of the conversation in my mind over again, like when he said he 'sorta writes too' but won't say how, like the time he added a wow after my name, "Angela, wow," like he was conversing with himself inside his head, absently commenting by not commenting at all. Like the fact that he asked me, very discreetly mind you, if I had anyone in New York. He never out right said he was interested or anything. He would never do anything like that, but I can sort of read him now. And the looks he gives me send shivers down my spine.

I'm practical enough to know a long distance relationship is not what I need. I hate myself for it, but randomly I remember John. He works in layouts at the paper. We haven't so much as done anything although we've been sort of gravitating around each other for months. He's a friend and could probably be more, but I always keep him at arm's length because I'm not very trusting these days. Except, with him, I know that I want to.

But Jordan, the very reason I can't trust anyone, I'm entertaining in a dimly lit romantic restaurant. And here I am playing with the idea of having him, like as a one-night stand or something. And when I think about it that way, it's about as tempting as a train wreck.

_-Good thing you never went down with that ship, am I right?- _Rayanne had sad, and I realize the tone of voice wasn't exactly playful so much as wary. She's has a downright seductive way of being wary these days so it's hard to tell. But I realize she's right.

I can't have him. Because having would make this all too real and very sad. Actually having him would make me lose this, like, need, or something. I wouldn't really get what I want; like everything would change colors and my memories of what we were won't be nice anymore. Or would be less nice, and less of a memory because it would bring pain now. ...Not 'nice', god damn it. The doesn't even begin to describe the whole bitter-sweet, meaningful, important, heartfelt...there are just too many words. If I did do anything, anything I'd regret, it'd be like I would have spent everything I was but gained nothing. And maybe I was still a little in love with him but I didn't love him. I mean, ten years have flown past and did I try and find him even once? Did he try and find me? No. In Real Life, things don't really work like that.

I'm scribbling in my pad so fast the page underneath twists and nearly tears, but I can't remember a thing I wrote even as I was writing it.

I have to wash my face before I leave the bathroom, because somehow, unnoticed to me, I'd started to cry.

* * *

We finish the bottle. The tone between us is vastly calmer since I'd come out of the bathroom. I'm much more guarded when he asks me questions now, although I don't think he notices. I stare at him more openly than ever before, not because I'm admiring him but because now that I've thought about it I can't help comparing him to John.

I realize rather early on that every comparison is purely physical. And they couldn't be more different. John was a clumsy fast talker, while Jordan was sparse and mumbled. John had deep dark eyes that could bore a hole through your soul if you stared at them too long. Jordan's could do that too but in a very different sort of way, like he was stripping your soul naked, just exposing you but not really finding you. Jordan was lean, John was sort of scrawny. Dark skinned, light skinned.

All facts, but when aligned beside each other...Superficial was safe though, because if I calculated a real list for comparison, it would make an impressive list of do's and don'ts.

While I'm not exactly ready to settle down, buy a house and raise 2.5 kids yet, I also know I am still not ready to trust Jordan. I know now I never will be. And it makes me admire him more in a detached sort of way. Like how Rickie used to admire us when we walked along together hand-in-hand.

My smile comes easier but my voice sort of goes away. We're still talking but he has to lean in to hear me.

"It sounds like she just wanted to trust you," I say remarkably calmly. I cannot believe I'm siding with the ex-wife. "It's not even that she really wanted a marriage, but more like she figured if there was something tying you together while you were on the road, than you were sure to come home... just for her."

His eyes narrow slightly and he runs his thumb along his bottom lip thoughtfully. "Sounds like you know from personal experience."

"Oh, I do," I smirk impishly, leaning further in, "There is a couch in the study my mother baits me with in the exact same way."

We crack up in a restrained sort of way.

And I'm stuck in a moment I can't seem to get out of. I'm a deer staring at head lights. I'm so near to him, but so far away I could almost fall. I could just fall. I'm noticing just how wide his shoulders seem to have gotten and noting exactly how long he's been tugging at his lower lip and how the silver piercing he's got on the top of his ear suddenly seems so sexy.

"You used to..." he starts suddenly, like he's stuck in a memory and not right there on the edge with me. "You used to say things...like everything that popped into your head."

For a second I back peddle, thinking he's criticizing or saying something... something tragic and I'm going to crash.

"You used to make every thing sound important. Just everything. I miss that."

God...

"You should send me an article or something," he says, standing abruptly. And I need to blink to keep the image of him from staining on the backs of my lids. He shrugs on his coat and pulls his messenger back over his shoulder in as much time as it takes for me to catch my breath.

"Yeah," I mumble after him, hurrying to get my things as well.

"You don't have to rush. I mean stay. It's just... I gotta go."

"No, Me. I've got to go too, I'm late. Whoa, I didn't even realize how late." I am babbling, I'm babbling so hard I bite my tongue. This makes my words sound drunker than I feel, which is obviously true seeing as how I suddenly feel tragically sober.

God, why didn't he just kiss me? Why do I still want him to? If I wanted to, really wanted to, than why didn't I just kiss him? Why... why would I just let such a perfect moment... such a perfect moment just... just let it go?

The cold night air clears my head up some. I still hug my arms to my chest and rub warmth into my limbs. The wine is actually keeping me warm, but I need something to do with my hands. And my hair, my hair is just everywhere. I'm looking down while we're walking to the bus stop and that's partly the problem. The other is, I can't bring myself to look at him anymore. It just hurts.

We say nothing while we wait for the bus, just sort of hover beside each other. And I'm sure I feel him looking at me. It's hard not to think of how many times I used to wish for him to do just that, and now that he is I just want to be invisible. When the bus pulls up and an elderly couple take their time to dismount he's shuffling through his bag. I thought he was looking for change but he calls me back when I step onto the bus.

"Hey Angela," he says kind of seriously. He shoves bits of paper into my hand. They're tickets to his band's show later tonight. It reads 'LIVE, one night only' and I realize he's not getting on the bus with me.

"You're not coming?" I panic. I hate that I still ask questions I already know the answer to. I manage to cover up the desperation in my tone but I come off sounding more frightened than anything.

"Nah, I gotta catch a cab to the venue, but you should maybe come."

I'm hovering between the pavement and the bus. Between this world and that. Finally, he steps nearer and brings a warmth with him, just like with his smile. "We could use a decent review," he says. And I smile, because it doesn't matter that he didn't kiss me before, it matters that I mattered to him, like, at all. I love my life, just for having little moments like these.

* * *

Walking to the house from the Third Street bus stop I replay stepping onto the bus, turning to leave just to suddenly have his arms around me, just surrounding me. I relive how I fit perfectly, just perfectly in the space in-between. I think about how much I feel for him right now, like how I never ever wanted to let go, like this is only the start of something amazing, …and remember how he always used to feel like that. So, I let go.

I thank the bus driver for not hurrying us and I'm grinning so shamelessly, he waves me through without having to pay. At the back of the bus, through the window I could make out a shadow of him growing smaller as he moves away. And I watch until he disappears, sort of blankly admiring the fact that he didn't linger. I wish that were me.

In a way, it sort of is.

About halfway home, after listening to the conversation in my head so many times there isn't any doubt, I realize I never even asked for his number. It hits me just afterward, that it wasn't a slight. Just my usual forgetfulness, not that he's much better.

At the house, it doesn't feel nearly as still or quiet anymore. I come in the front way, because Jules parked my car at a funny angle. Danielle's lying across the couch, listening to her pink iPod and flipping through a newspaper. The paper she's reading is one of mine, I brought it to show dad. She must have gotten it out of the study. My name is actually in print in this one, not that it's something that happens often; so far pretty much just the once, but I'm not surprised it caught her eye. I'm not even sure I told him what paper I work for, or corrected him that I don't write reviews or anything like that. At this point my thoughts are so jumbled I figure I'm not going to get any sleep, so I might as well work.

I stoop down and kiss her head as I pass by and nearly give her a heart attack.

"First you leave the TV on, and loud... I came in through the back and thought Ross Gellar was robbing us. Then you just sneak up on me." She groans dramatically and drops the article to the floor and shoves it under the couch with her toes.

"So," she trails after me into the kitchen, "you're here for the weekend too?"

I shrug in affirmation while I guzzle water from a bottle.

"So," she smirks more playfully and leans across the counter toward me, and I know she can smell the wine reeking off of me, "Here for business or pleasure?"

I sidestep the innuendo and grab a couple of aspirin's to preempt any chance of a hangover, and with that I'm nearly ready to work.

"You on break or are you hiding out?" I say and make sure to catch that parental tone that makes her cringe. She rethinks her reply and fiddles with some loose strands by her right ear. Her hair is lighter, since I last saw, not as light as mine but spry and cheerily cut into something nearing a bob. It reminds me of a younger me but it just sort of suits her better.

"I'm on break...sort of. I just survived through the last of my exams so I needed to slow things down. It's not an official holiday or anything but--"

The phone rings and she's like a rocket lit. She nearly topples me over to get to the phone.

"Yeah? HEY! Yeah, I know. Yeah me too. Oh my god, wasn't that just awful but I think I did alright."

And suddenly, it's like I'm not even in the room, which suggests to me that I may as well not be. She lifts the cord so I can dive under and I wonder why she didn't just grab the cordless from the study while she was burrowing through my things.

"Hey!" she calls to me quickly, covering the mouthpiece with her hand while she climbs onto a stool, all feet and no grace. "I made steamed fish with thyme and vinaigrette. Bottom shelf", she jabs toward it with her foot then tucks it under her for balance. A second later I'm a shadow on the wall again.

The dish is still sort of warm so I don't bother microwaving it. I linger in the dining room instead of eating in private, because I don't exactly want to be alone and even if it has to be Danielle, it's better than nothing.

So this is how we sort of get along now and no one needs to know. It's a work in progress. She went to NYU right after me but that's about as similar as our paths ever got. She's started attending a culinary school as well, soemthing to do with restuarunt managements, which keeps her pretty busy. It's really weird how we live in the same city but only manage to run into each other at home. This small fact drives my mom crazy. (She thinks we should like drive down together every weekend. Quality bonding time or something.)

I watch her nonstop talking and pacing from over the counter, till she looks briefly in my direction and I smile, letting her know the food is good. She nods but doesn't break stride. I can't tell you how relieved I am she picked up cooking from Dad. I have to admit that did have a little something to do with her getting on my good side. She makes me food and I give her whatever freebies my paper throws my way. Well, whichever ones I don't want. It's bordering on friendship, what we've got going here, but we don't want to ruin it by behaving like, you know, family or anything.

Eventually she'll probably take over Dad's restaurant and I'll probably end up with the publishing business, not that I'm complaining. In fact it's sort of this unspoken plan between the two of us,...where everything works out just fine and Mom and Dad are none the wiser.

I watch her pace along the corridor and eventually plop down on the couch. She got all of Dad's passion and all of Mom's business sense but she still goes through my stuff, she still just shows up when I least want or expect it, and while I still find her annoying... I really like that she looks like someone familiar, but entirely not. Not that I'd ever say that, you know, out loud. Mostly I like that I get to be the older sister to her and make sure she doesn't stumble through the same pitfalls along the way...

"It's depressing that's what it is, I mean I'm twenty not fifty. I should be living it up; my life is just so lame, I feel like I'm eternally on pause. Well, if I had the house to myself... yeah but no. I can't believe we finally get some time off and we're couch surfing. Just so god damn sad, I swear."

"Here," I say, pulling the folded tickets out of my notepad. I walk over and hand them to her, marveling how steady my hand is when my inside are in knots.

"Oh god, do you know what these are—this is a sold-out show! I mean are you sure?" she asks; only barely managing to restrain her excitement. She plucks them out of my grip and I watch her just light up.

"Yeah," I shrug and return to clearing away my dishes.

"Ooh! My -_wonderful_- sister just—wait hold on, Can I borrow your car?"

"Over my dead body," I shout over my shoulder and resolve myself to tidying up.

"My uptight sister just gave me tickets to, you won't believe what! Guess! Come on, guess." And then she squealing so loud and so is her friend, I'm reassured, I've done the right thing, I think. I mean I really think I have. I don't think Jordan would mind, I mean, he probably won't even notice. I mean...

"Yeah, so you can pick me up? Brilliant! Be here in thirty," she drops the phone back into place and hugs me from behind, knocking the cleanser out of my hand. I catch it, frowning and threaten to spray it at her. She just flounces away, humming aloud to herself.

I laugh because she's like dancing, to music, in her head. Like my mom used to in the hallway, like I used to on the front stoop, like we all should when nobody's watching. And I sort of feel like dancing too.

* * *

It's about 2am when Danielle stumbles in and I'm lounging on the fainting couch, sort of working and sort of waiting up. I can't make anything out of my notes tonight. I wonder if I ever will. It's hieroglyphics really. Tear-stained hieroglyphics. And I am absolutely not distracted by the sound of Danielle washing up for bed. But I make out something about...what was it, about making something yours by giving it up. Or the reverse, not making something yours by keeping...you know, I should call Rickie; he just...has this way about him. He can make me make sense.

Danielle pops into view about a minute later, clean faced and clad in bright pajama bottoms and a black tank. She's all smiles and says all sorts of things about the show. Commenting on the venue and the crowd, a vague set list and quoting some comments her friend made in-between songs. The things she says makes me think she wants me to consider her commentary as sort of a professional fan-review. Meanwhile, she's not talking about the one thing I really want to know about. Then she just suddenly finishes with "Because the band, 30Seconds, they're like sex! Even bad, it's still damn good, not that they could ever be bad...sigh." I scoff at that and pretend to type something important, hoping that would hint for her to move along. She sort of gets it and climbs off the end of my fainting couch.

"So, the parental units are still out?" She tugs her short hair behind her ear and has this really masterful stance, legs steady and shoulder width apart, hands on her narrow hips and she looks more womanly than I've managed in all my twenty-five years.

"Yeah, they'll be at the B&B till Monday. They're being all creepy and loving and don't want to be disturbed. Like anyone would want to." We both shudder and look away.

"Well, try not to overwork yourself, I mean you are here for a reason, right?"

"Right," I say dismissively, sifting through my notes again. I find it remarkable that she's talking about Jordan's band, and in that respect putting Jordan and sex in the same sentence, and I don't want to kill myself. The last part of what she says just sticks with me though, and the moment I know she's gone I can't help but wonder why the hell I am here. I mean, don't get me wrong, I love this couch, I really really do, but at home I've got a perfectly good...Billy. Billy the cat, who's probably starving.

Before I even have a chance to panic my cell rings. I clutch it and answer a bit breathlessly, "H-Hello?"

"Don't worry, I fed him." Rickie reassures me and I could just kiss him.

"God, I could just kiss you," I sigh and collapse onto the couch. He reads my mind I tell you, he totally reads my mind. "You'd think a girl who grew up in a cat household would not forget to at least feed it."

In the background there are noises of Rayanne and Billy not getting along as usual. He thinks her hair is a play toy. She doesn't find him remotely charming.

"Hey, how come you only offer yourself to me when you're hundreds of miles away?" he says hummingly and I laugh. "So. How's your weekend so far?"

There is a pause as Rayanne hushes my cat so she can press her ear near to Rickie's and can hear her breathing nearly as clearly as I can smell her perfume.

"Fine. Good, real good. Danielle cooked fish."

There's a victorious sort of shout from her while Rickie tries to muzzle her.

"Rayanne, Angela says thank you for the heads up and Jordan still looks hot."

"You tell that bitch, you tell her she should be kissing the ground I walk on! Tell her she should bow down to me and praise --"

"Angela, Rayanne says, you're welcome and it was the least she could do and that she misses you and hopes you come home soon."

"Tell her be nice to Billy and he'll start being nice to her," I chuckle.

"Rayanne, Angela says she loves you too and no they did not hook up."

God, I'm holding my breath so as not to laugh.

"Rickie," I don't mean to interrupt but I need to, "I've made some notes..."

"Like what kind of notes?"

"Just notes."

"Ooohhh," he sighs in that exasperatingly knowing sort of way that he has.

"I just sort of wanted to know, if you know...you guys would be there, you know, when I get home." Guys, plural.

The line goes quiet for a second and Rayanne picks up.

"Hmmm?" she hums in a deeper voice, doing her very best Rickie imitation.

See, there is some bad blood between us. And if there is one thing I learned from my control-freak of a mother, (not that I'd ever openly admit that,) it's that bad blood between families, even surrogate family, is just unacceptable. Rayanne has never actually forgiven me for forgiving Jordan but not her. It's because I -_actually- _haven't forgiven either of them but at the same time I sort of have. It's one of those weird puzzles that you think you can figure out in time, but you don't, but then so much time has gone past that you're forced to just sort of accept it. It's all very Zen and complex in its simplicity. Maybe I'll have Rickie explain it to you; he's really good at all that.

I laugh, "What I'm saying is..." I keep an eye on the stairs and keep my voice low, while I collect my things and make my way out the back door. (I'm sure as much as she'd love to mooch off me this weekend, Danielle would rather have her friend's over and have run of the house.) "I'm going to head home, 'in the city' home, and I... I'd like for you to be there when I get in. Okay. Because I want to hang out, just the three of us, alright?"

"Oooh baby," she purrs, "How can anyone say no to a proposition like that?"

We both laugh a little while I managed to barely slide into the driver's side, without toppling under the weight of my purse, coat, laptop and shoes. I'm tempted to start the engine, but she might bolt knowing I'm already on my way.

Then she clears her throat authoritatively. "Alright," she starts, "so tomorrow, and you better be here early 'cause I have better things to do you know."

"Really, do you?" I sigh and wait. I don't expect her to reply because I'm not sure either of us could really commit to saying or doing much more at present.

Out of the blue, I catch sight of Danielle's ticket stub in with my stuff. Uhm, not sure how that got there but I don't even hesitate to stuff it into my notepad. "Why not?" I grin and I know she can hear it, "a lot can happen in one night."

"Great! But, you'd better get here soon or the cat gets it," she beams and I can just hear her beaming, just like I can hear Rickie noiselessly chuckling while pressing his ear to the phone.

So, I hang up, stuff my notepad securely into my back pocket and put the car in gear, ready for the long haul. I'm tap my foot against the gas-pedal to a phantom song in my head, and by the time I hit the interstate I'm humming along pretty loudly, genuinely pleased that at this rate, I'll be home by noon...


End file.
